


a face on a lover (with a fire in his heart)

by sanctimonials



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Holidays, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanctimonials/pseuds/sanctimonials
Summary: “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” Aziraphale mumbles as he surveys the last minute shopping madness he is currently daring to walk into.“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself,” Madame Tracy says, keeping close to the angel.This story starts in a place most don’t: in a department store close to the holidays. Going into a department store near Christmas is like walking into battle; one must really have their teeth bared and arms at the ready if they want to nab that last Perfect Gift. And, with the help of Madame Tracy, Aziraphale is determined to find the Perfect Gift for his dearest Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 161





	a face on a lover (with a fire in his heart)

**Author's Note:**

> yes, the title is a Last Christmas lyric. please don't @ me, we all know it is the superior Christmas song. also, please, i'm an American with no knowledge of department stores other than Macy's, i am basing all of my ideas of shopping on how awful Macy's is during the holidays.
> 
> that being said: happy holidays from me to you!

This story starts in a place most don’t: in a department store close to the holidays. It’s a beautifully wretched time of year, and Aziraphale is quickly realizing that as much as humans love the winter holidays they could also really go without the never-ending stress of it all. It is like going into battle, walking into a department store near Christmas[1]; one must really have their teeth bared and arms at the ready if they want to nab that last Perfect Gift.

But Aziraphale is long retired as a soldier[2], and is much too soft to be upset when the rogue person bumps into him without so much as an “excuse me”. Kill them with kindness [3], that’s his motto, and if the person who bumped into him goes home with a little more manic Christmas cheer, well, that’s be fine by him. It's the holidays after all, and no amount of pushing, shoving or grouchiness would deter him from his task or turn him into an old Scrooge. 

And, speaking of Scrooge, the task at hand is, ironically, buying his own Scrooge a gift. Holidays weren’t something supernatural [4] beings like he and Crowley celebrated or thought too hard about. For the most part, religious holidays passed Aziraphale by, and Crowley just straight up forgot until he saw too much tinsel in a shop window and sneered at it. Centuries have gone by and they’d never so much as even exchanged a “Happy Holidays” to one another. 

But these last few months have really changed everything between the angel and the demon. Much like the air after a thunderstorm, crackling with forgotten electricity, their relationship buzzed with its new lease on life after the Apoca-debacle. Aziraphale, blind and dumb to many things, was not so oblivious to miss their relationship going from short, secret rendezvouses in places he couldn’t remember the names of to long picnics in public parks, short holidays in outrageous places and shameless lounging on Crowley’s open balcony for All [5] to see. It was liberating in a way Aziraphale never felt, and to share it with Crowley, well. Aziraphale was never one for sentimentalities but he truly couldn’t think of sharing these moments with anyone else. 

And so, with these past months of firsts fresh in his mind, Aziraphale decided that this advent season would be their first together. He’d done the whole shebang: he’d bought the tree and decorated it, he’d baked [6] biscuits and cakes, and he played the sweet, nostalgic Christmas songs by crooners of a bygone age. He found himself buzzing with the idea of showing the fruits of his labor to Crowley over a glass of sufficiently spiked eggnog. All he needed was to buy the demon a gift. 

This brings him here, to one of the largest department stores Britain has to offer, looking at worn down retail workers pitifully as they smile beatifically at customers, counting down each agonizing minute until they could go home or strangle the customer. Whichever came first.

Aziraphale is perusing a beautiful display of watches when his name is called out. He turns around, eyes scanning the crowd until a familiar painted face and scowl walk into his sight. 

“Hi, hello! Sorry we’re late, love. Mr. Shadwell couldn’t find his dear old hat,” Madame Tracy explains, sending a fond look to the old witch finder-cum-househusband. She reaches out to fix it, and Shadwell gently brushes her hand off with a snarl that is no longer menacing (not that it ever was to Madame).

“It’s me witch finding hat, harlot, can’t leave the house without it,” he says and she nods. 

“Yes, dearie, of course. It’s very fetching,” Tracy coos, making the old man’s cheeks color. She then turns to Aziraphale, her brightly painted eyes alight with the joy of a good shop around. “So, love, what are we up to today? Need some help buying a gift for the Mister? He’s been dropping hints, has he?”

Aziraphale’s world stops abruptly and he worries that he accidentally paused time. But no, he hadn’t, and the word shoots like a bullet through his now palpitating heart.

“Mister?!” Aziraphale sputters, his cheeks reddening.

“Well, didn’t you say you needed help buying Crowley a gift?”

“Yes, I - I did, however —“ 

“So stop all this faffing about. I may be coming up on my years but I’m not old-fashioned! [7] Love is love and all that, no need to hide from me!” 

Aziraphale finds himself floundering, practically drowning in the idea of Crowley as his Mister. It’s something to think about later, alone, with a glass of wine that helps the truth easier to swallow. “Well, we’re, erm... Thank you, Madame, that’s very kind of you but, we’re - er- not really together, per se,” Aziraphale begins. 

“The hell you’re not what with the way you two make eyes at each other,” Shadwell exclaims, disbelief clear on his face.

“Now, Mr. Shadwell, why don’t you go and get yourself a tea, hm? And why not a bacon sarnie as well? There we go, that’s a dear — I’ll meet you round there in an hour or so, is that alright? Off you pop, love!” With a smile, Madame Tracy shoos her husband off, sending little waves his way when he sends them wary glances as he shuffles off. As soon as he’s out of sight, Madame Tracy turns her full attention to the angel, her face in clear disbelief as well. “Not together! Is that so?”

“Yes, and that’s why we’re here,” Aziraphale sniffs, sure his ears are still hot pink at the edges. “I’d really like to get him something for Christmas. We haven’t ever exchanged gifts and, quite frankly, what with what we’ve been through this year I think dear Crowley deserves a gift.”

“Understatement,” Madame Tracy sniffs back. “But what will you get him? He’s very flashy.”

“That’s where you come in, my dear. I don’t think I have the mindset needed for his, erm.... tastes,” Aziraphale says, finishing the sentence quite lamely. 

The poor angel had been plagued with the thought of Crowley’s gift for the better part of the holiday season. He knew Crowley was a creature of high tastes; to match his original snake form, everything the man owned or came in touch with was modern, sleek and, most importantly, black. Compared to Aziraphale, whose tastes were described as unassuming, homely and, on the rare occasion, frumpy [8]. It was a whole different beast to try and find something that fit the demon’s aesthetics.

“Well, dearie, don’t you worry! I’m sure we’ll find something wonderful.”

Aziraphale can’t help the fond smile that stretches across his face. It’s been a while since his last, dare he say, friendship with a human. He loves humanity, don’t get him wrong, but They were fragile and oh so prone to early deaths. But, after the Apocawhoops, having those like Madame Tracy, Anathema and even the likes of Newt and Shadwell around, it was easy to remember why he did what he did. They were full of something he simultaneously coveted and fiercely protected: life. Surely the holiday season had more than a little help in getting him so sentimental but the thought stood. 

“Madame Tracy, I must thank you for coming out in this dreadful mess. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Aziraphale says, smiling gratefully at his formerly borrowed [9] vessel and placing a grateful hand on her elbow.

“Oh, now dear, don’t be silly, I love to be a help,” Madame Tracy titters, her eyes already flitting around to look at the glittering jewelry and fancy handbags. After a beat or two [10] they continued deeper into the hellhole that was the department store.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” Aziraphale mumbles as he surveys the last minute shopping madness he is currently daring to walk into.

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself,” Madame Tracy says, keeping close to the angel.

Now, the thing with last-minute holiday shopping is this: it’s a right old fuckfest and no one likes to do it. The racks are a mess, your minds a mess and, yes, Ms. Mariah Carey’s single is a hit but after the tenth run of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ all you really want for Christmas is a good glass of sherry and a place to sit. 

Aziraphale would kill for some sherry and a seat by the fire. It’s been the better part of an hour and he still hasn’t found a damn thing for his beloved friend. Madame Tracy, however, has found herself a good shop around. She’s beaming with her last-minute finds and sale items, and Aziraphale can’t help but feel jealous. And incompetent. He can’t seem to find one good thing for the flashy demon and here’s Madame Tracy, finding perfect gifts for everyone. Aziraphale worries that he’s accidentally slipping some miracles here and there.

“We’ll find something, love, don’t fret,” Tracy coos as she inspects a lovely scarf, already an hour and some change into their shopping.

“Can’t help fretting. I’ve been told it’s part of my personality.” Aziraphale sighs, as time is beginning to become scarce. He looks over to his shopping companion, who is now laden with gifts. Her shopping fervor wearing thin and the bags she's carrying look awfully heavy. Aziraphale lays a soft hand on her elbow to get her attention. “You don’t have to stay, Madame Tracy, thank you.”

“But Aziraphale! What about Crowley?”

“No worries, I’m sure something will turn up,” Aziraphale smiles. “But, my dear, it looks like you’re quite stocked up. I won’t keep you or Mr. Shadwell any longer. It’s been a while anyway, and I’m sure he’s missing you.”

Madame Tracy looks ready to argue but the angel can tell she’s well worn down from the holiday rush. She nods, muttering, “if you’re sure, love. Then off I pop. I’ll see you, dear. Give us a call if you would like some company this holiday.”

They say their goodbyes and if Aziraphale adds a little miracle to their travels so they will get home quickly and safely, well. He’ll just chalk it up to the usual angelic goodwill if someone Upstairs makes a fuss. 

As he watches Madame walk away, Aziraphale suddenly feels very lost. He wanted so badly to find a perfect gift for Crowley but nothing fit. They looked at sunglasses and suits, belts and watches, but even though they were all flashy and high-fashion, they just weren’t right. Nothing felt right to give to his dearest, oldest friend who, She Willing, he hoped would become something more come Christmas morning. 

Feeling dejected and down, Aziraphale begins to make his way back outside to greater London. As he passes by the jewelry again, something catches his eye. He’s surprised to see a simple black band with a thin ring of gold around the middle on display. That hadn’t been there when they did their first round and he suspects the counter worker just put it out, what with the dwindling merchandise. Understated, but different, Aziraphale finds himself drawn to the ring. He imagines it on the thin, long digit of a certain flashy bastard he’s come to adore and suddenly it’s in a black, velvet box, safe in his pocket as he leaves the store and walks into the brisk air of Londontown.

***** * * *****

“Merry Christmas, angel!”

Is what Aziraphale was not prepared to hear when he opens the door to the bookshop come Christmas Day. And there stands Crowley, decked in his usual black clothing with his usual dark sunglasses and snake-skinned boots, but with a bright red Santa hat tipped jauntily over his deep red hair. In his hand is a bottle of what Aziraphale can only assume to be very good, very aged and very expensive wine, wrapped in shiny silver paper. Crowley is the very spirit of Christmas cheer and it, well, throws Aziraphale right off his axis.

“Crowley! Seems someone got bit by the holiday spirit,” Aziraphale exclaims as Crowley saunters inside and to the backroom.

“Eh, you can say that,” Crowley shrugs, placing the wine on the small coffee table in Aziraphale’s backroom. “It’s, uh, it’s special, don’t you think? We’ve never celebrated a holiday, never got the chance to, so why not this holiday? Goodwill to man, joy to the world, thank whoever we’re not fighting in flame and blood and all that, right? It just makes sense to get a little more, uh… joyous.” 

Crowley looks towards Aziraphale, his worry palpable to the angel. _He’s nervous he’s overstepped_, Aziraphale realizes with a fondness in his heart that makes him feel warm. It’s all the old bookkeeper ever wanted for this holiday.

“Of course, my dear boy,” Aziraphale smiles, and he sees Crowley visibly deflate, the tenseness in his muscles melting away. He reaches out for the bottle and goes off to grab them a couple of glasses. “Well then, let’s get this Christmas started.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Crowley says as if he and the angel haven’t been on the same page, or in the same book, for hundreds and thousands of pages.

The night continues on how it typically does: they get roaringly and disgustingly smashed. Crowley is delighted by the food and pastries Aziraphale cooked up [11] and, even though it’s not his _thing_, he indulges in the meal and snacks, clearly enjoying every bite despite his eyes being covered by his dark glasses. They listen to the holiday music playing on the radio and they don’t mind that they hear ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ and ‘Last Christmas’ around three times a-piece in one hour. The night is lovely and spent the only way either of them can imagine how: with each other’s company.

“Crow - Crow - my dear, I got you a, uh, uh -- gift,” Aziraphale manages to slur once they settle into their usual drinking spots with Crowley lounging on the chaise, his Santa hat forgotten on the floor, and Aziraphale slumped into his armchair. Aziraphale knew that, had he been a human, he’d be black-out drunk. Which, in theory, would be the perfect opportunity to give his gift to Crowley, which is sitting heavily in the pocket of his waistcoat. 

“Oh, what? You didn -- didn’t have to,” Crowley hiccups. Despite his words, he’s up and walking towards the angel, eager to see what he is being given. 

“Wanted to,” Aziraphale counters as he plucks the velvet box out of his pocket and into Crowley’s hand.

They’re silent for a moment [12], both of their eyes on the box. Until Crowley, with the gentlest touch, picks up the box and gingerly pulls it open. Inside is the band, obsidian black, the thin gold line around its middle glinting softly in the dim firelight. They’re both silent, and deathly still, and Aziraphale worries he’s overstepped, and over-thought, their relationship.

“If you don’t like it, my dear, I can --” 

“Are you kidding me?” Crowley murmurs, his eyes still turned towards the ring. Aziraphale suddenly feels very sober and his heart grows cold, colder than when Crowley asked for holy water, colder than when Crowley said he’d leave to the stars without him, and he begins to fumble through an explanation.

“Crowley, I can -- just allow me to explain -- It’s all -- I assumed --”

His words die on his lips as Crowley lifts a single, long finger to silence him. Properly shut up, he can only watch as the demon begins to rummage through his suit pocket, muttering all the while.

“I can’t believe this, all of this time and here he comes -- of course he has to be the one, I can’t get a word in edgewise -- it’s always too fast this, and my friend that --”

And just as Aziraphale nonchalantly placed the velvet box in Crowley’s hand, Crowley places a plain, white box in his. It’s made from leather, the material plush to the touch as if it has been handled lovingly for years and the leather has worn down into a soft, comfortable state. Much like the angel it was being given to.

“I’ve had that for years,” Crowley says as he takes off his shades, yellow eyes bright with meaning. The affection in his eyes has Aziraphale reeling, his head fuzzy, and his heart heavy and so, so warm with love. He opens the box to find a simple, white gold band inside. “Merry Christmas, angel,” Crowley says again, this time whisper-soft. 

And Aziraphale beams up at him, his blue eyes sky bright with tears. He leans up just as the demon leans down, their lips meeting right in the middle. The kiss is not brief, and they thank whoever they can that they don’t need to breathe, as they want to savor what thousands of years have finally crested to. As they pull away, disgustingly tender and softhearted, they can only smile at each other, until Crowley becomes embarrassed by the whole affair and exclaims, “well, put the damned thing on, will you! I’ve only had it for the better part of the century, rotting away.”

“Of course, my love, of course,” Aziraphale complies, slipping the band that, unsurprisingly, fits perfectly onto his finger. He smiles at it for a second before turning back to Crowley and taking the black band out of its box. “May I?”

Crowley, still embarrassed, can only mutter, “yeah, sure.” Aziraphale can only think of how dashing the band looks on the demon, how stylish it is and how it matches perfectly with Crowley’s look.

“Perfect,” Aziraphale breathes and Crowley’s face explodes into pink. Stomping back to the chaise, Crowley grabs the bottle of wine they were demolishing as he goes and practically downs the rest of it. Aziraphale laughs at his shenanigans and gets up to cozy-up next to the demon on the couch. Crowley doesn’t make a single noise of protest and, as Aziraphale cuddles closer, Crowley wraps a long, thin arm around his shoulders.

And if they spend the rest of the holiday season wrapped up together on the chaise, only detangling to miracle a new bottle of wine or a new, warm fire, well. No one’s making a fuss upstairs or downstairs about it. [13]

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Or Not Christmas, as Aziraphale was wont to correct anyone near him. Everyone knows that Jesus was born nowhere near the winter months but best not go against The Church’s wills and ways as they can really write a very strongly worded letter. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Wasn’t much of one to begin with, She’d admit. Give him a sword and he loses it, well. She, in all of Her wisdom, should’ve really seen that one coming.[return to text]
> 
> 3 Though, this feeling doesn’t apply to someone cutting him in line at the local patisserie or being, as Crowley would say, a real fuckhead. Some things kindness just won’t kill.[return to text]  

> 
> 4 ”Just say ‘occult’, Angel,” Crowley said, taking a long sip from a drink that was more alcohol than drink and more color than alcohol. It had a garish umbrella in it. Crowley had insisted on the small holiday to a summer island at the beginning of winter and Aziraphale, lured by coconut candies and a nice book on the beach, had agreed. Though the Sandal’s Resort was a bit much, and he really would’ve preferred a more private hotel. 
> 
> “Ethereal,” Aziraphale pressed, taking a sip from his own fishbowl of neon green.
> 
> “I’m not.” _Sluuurp._
> 
> “....Supernatural.”
> 
> “Sure.” [return to text]
> 
> 5 Re: Heaven, Hell, Her. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Miracled, rather, or, er. Went to his favorite local patisserie and, oh what a miracle some of his favorite biscuits and tarts were still available, so close to the holiday, how odd, must’ve overlooked them. If he transferred the goods to a baking tray and called it a day, well, no one needs to know. Aziraphale can’t bake and he wasn’t about to start now. [return to text]
> 
> 7 An understatement, if Aziraphale has ever heard one. He had never met a woman more with the times. And he knew this fact personally. [return to text]
> 
> 8 The rare occasion being just once, said by Crowley, who managed to offend Aziraphale so much he had to practically buy the angel’s favor back. He did, with a wonderful night at the opera and a lovely dinner at a cozy establishment in Berlin. It was expensive and Aziraphale forgave him. As angels should do.[return to text]
> 
> 9 Possessed, really.[return to text]
> 
>   
10 Or three or four. Really, Aziraphale can’t help but look at the rings on display, all shiny and new. “Like a damn bird, you are,” Crowley had exclaimed once, around the height of the jewelry craze and around the time Aziraphale had bought his beloved pinky ring. [return to text]
> 
> 11 Bought with monetary means.[return to text]
> 
> 12 More like minutes, but, for them, minutes are moments for two beings who have gone through countless minutes and moments.[return to text]
> 
> 13 And if Madame Tracy can’t get a hold of Aziraphale except for a text that says, “Can’t right now. Busy with the Mister.” well. She’s not making a fuss either.[return to text]


End file.
